Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

I grab more supplies, then lie down on the towel on the floor with my ass on a cushion, elevating my hips. The following hour is spent in three ways. The first involves drinking enough wine to have the room spinning. The second has me biting down extremely hard on a broom handle, stifling screams. The third has a disinfectant-soaked rag in my hand, dabbing at what should never be dabbed with disinfectant. I don’t know if it will become infected. Thoughts of my testicle becoming gangrenous are so horrifying that the mere possibility keeps me dabbing. When I’m done, I wash down my stomach and see that the long cut Melissa gave me is shallow enough to ignore-not that it matters. I mean, Jesus, my stomach lining could be poking through and it would be nothing in comparison with my testicle.

I don’t know if I will ever have sex again. Ever walk properly. Ever talk. All I know is that I need this day to end. This Sunday. . No, hang on a moment. Saturday?

Jesus, this is Saturday! This means my internal clock is far more damaged than I thought, but also means I have another day before the weekend’s over. A whole day to heal.

I am starting to slip into a total-body shutdown. I head over to my bed and lie down. My mind is setting the pain aside and storing it in my memory bank on the chance I can fall asleep, and on the slimmer chance I might manage to wake up again. I wish a blurred good night to my fish. It could be night. Could still be morning.

My head swirling with thoughts of revenge, sluggish from the alcohol, I close my eyes and look for an escape.

She’s watching one of the DVDs with her father when the phone rings. On the TV somebody is trying to put Clint Eastwood into a grave. If you took that out of a Clint Eastwood movie, there wouldn’t be a lot else going on. This particular time they’re starting by putting his head through a noose. Her father hits the pause button while she gets up and moves into the dining room. On the screen, time has stopped, giving Clint longer to think about what he has done to make these men want to hang him.

Sally is sure the call will be for one of her parents because nobody ever calls for her. For a moment she thinks it could be Joe, but the moment is brief. He probably threw her number out as soon as she left the records room yesterday. Just what had she been thinking? That she could somehow replace her brother?

She reaches out and picks up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Sally?”

“That’s right,” she says, not recognizing the voice.

“Sally?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Joe.”

“Joe?”

“Sally? Sally, you said if I ever needed anything. .” His voice fades away.

“Joe?”

Still nothing. Is it really Joe? It doesn’t sound like him.

“Joe?”

“Please. Sally. Something has happened. I’m sick. Really, really sick. I don’t know what to do. I’m in pain. A lot of it. Can you help me? Is there anything you can do?”

“I can call you an ambulance.”

“No. No ambulance. Please, I need you to understand this,” he asks, talking as if she’s the one mentally challenged and not him. “I need painkillers. And first aid. Please, I need you to pick some up and come to my house. It hurts so bad. Please. Do you understand?”

“Where do you live?”

“Live? I. . I don’t remember.”

“Joe?”

“Wait, wait. Hang on. Pen? Do you have one?”

“I’ve got one.”

He gives her his address, and then he’s gone. She stares out the window at the vegetable garden in the backyard her father has been at war with for the last few years (he is slowly accepting defeat). All the plants and weeds also seem to be at war with each other. The phone call already feels like it just didn’t happen. It was short and confusing and so unlike Joe. She realizes she’s still holding the phone. That’s proof he just rang. She didn’t at all like the way he sounded. She punches two of the three required numbers to call an ambulance, then hangs up. She’ll hold off calling for help till she’s seen Joe. For all she knows, it could be something as simple as a splinter. Sometimes her brother would be the same way for something equally as small.

Up in her bedroom she pulls out a first-aid kit from beneath her bed, unzips the top, and checks to make sure it’s fully stocked, even though she knew it would be. She tells her parents she’ll be back later, then heads out to her car. It’s gray outside, there are a few patches of blue sky out to the east, but not many.

Joe’s neighborhood is on the decline, she thinks, as she follows the streets on her map. Many of the buildings and houses need work. Some more than others. A coat of paint and a lawn mower would solve some problems, but nothing short of demolition would fix others. This area wouldn’t need to be this way, she thinks, if more people cared.

Joe’s apartment building is only a few stories high. It’s made of brick, which in places has been tagged by teenagers’ spray paint. None of the windows are clean, mildew and mold have discolored the bottom third of the building, and cracks have been patched with mortar and paint. The pathway out front has some weird stains on it and smells like rotten food.

The staircase is dimly lit and smells a little like urine, but it’s not dim enough to miss seeing patches of blood every few steps or so. By the time she reaches the top floor she’s extremely worried. She looks at the different doors and finds Joe’s apartment. As she reaches out and knocks she notices her hands are shaking.

A minute goes by and Joe doesn’t answer. Was it him who actually called? It didn’t sound like him, but who else could it have been? A second and far worse thought comes to her. What if Joe was so badly hurt, he’s died? That’s the thought that makes her try the handle. She reaches out and twists it, and when she opens the door the stench of decay and disinfectant pushes out at her, and she has to stifle the compulsion to start gagging.

The apartment is small by any standards. Daylight is flooding through the single window on the far side and it hits every particle of floating dust along the way, making it look as though she’s walking into a sandstorm. She’s been wondering what Joe’s place would look like, but she hadn’t pictured this: wallpaper hanging from the walls, filthy and damaged floorboards, old furniture full of cracks and splits, not that she ever pictured she would see it under these circumstances. She hadn’t imagined such a mess either, but when she spots Joe lying on the bed she realizes it must only be because of the state he’s in. His clothes are heaped on the floor, covered in blood and grass stains and vomit. Bandages and tissues are piled in the middle of the floor. Next to them lies an empty bottle of wine, cotton swabs, rags, even a bottle of disinfectant. A bucket that reeks of bad things stands next to the couch.

Her immediate thought upon seeing all of that is that he’s been stabbed. Stabbed and killed.

She closes the door behind her, then quickly makes her way over to him. He’s naked, except for a sheet that covers his waist. His entire body is covered in a film of sweat, and has taken on a grayish tinge. His eyes are barely open, and she isn’t sure he can even see her. She can see the rise and fall of his chest. She smooths away his damp hair and rests a hand on his forehead. He’s burning up.

“Joe? Joe, can you hear me?”

His eyes open slightly further. “Mom? What’s happening?”

“Joe, it’s Sally.”

“Mom?”

His eyes close. The sheet covering his waist has patches of blood on it. More has dried on his stomach. His body is covered in scars, and a recent cut runs down his stomach. The blood on his hands and caked under his fingernails is mixed with dirt. There are smears of vomit on his upper body, along with streaks of grass and dirt.